Silhouette
by A Flicker
Summary: You look at me, but do you actually see me? Scabior/Hermione. EWE. Will be Mature. First chapter is up.


_Dear readers. I present to you my new idea for a story. An unlikely pairing – Scabior and Hermione. Disregards whatever gets in my way (although, I think that's not a lot). _

_Chapter 1_

"Son of a -" I yell suddenly, all too loudly. The rest of the sentence is masked by the sound of the shattering of a pair of cupboards and the clatter of cauldrons.

Fantastic. Just fantastic.

I'm wearing a grey vest (my mother had always warned me about doing work in those), so my arms and chest spurt with more and more boils by the second, but I succeed, after a few chosen curse words, at finding my wand on the ground, next to the now ruined potion. I disapparate from my now hideous looking lab, stopping the cursing only for 30 seconds, to concentrate on the actual apparition.

Good. I've not splinched.

Happy I've got no boiling happening on my legs (especially pleased about no boils around the crotch area - that is something I definitely don't need.) I continue my quest.

I soon find my way to inside St Mungo's. Reflecting on this moment, I think I may have actually shouted at the Welcome Witch.

"Hey! I need some help here!"

"It sure looks like you do, lad. Still no need for shouting. Third floor. Off with you now!" she commands, and I hurry away, not daring to say another word to the already distressed witch.

It's a bit of a blur, after that, really. Until the moment a witch stops me from rambling.

"Sir!" she cries out, her hands on my shoulders, stopping me physically.

"Yes, Curls?", I reply. She is quite shorter than me, and still she manages to make her brown curls seem like they are surrounding me, ready to attack.

"Sir, let me take you to Healer Derwent."

I note she's not complained about me calling her "Curls", but that can easily be attributed to most of my arms, and parts of my chest boiling, dangerously close to her.

I nod in agreement, and only then, in her moment of hesitation, I recognise her. It all comes back to me, in snippets of that awful day, the day we found Harry Potter wandering in the forest, with one male and one female friend.

Mudblood, I remember, while she walks next to me, guiding me to the designated ward.

Being a pedantic Healer I imagine she is, her palm never abandons its post on my shoulder.

She finds the Healer she was looking for. He takes one quick glance at me.

"Bulbadox Powder?" he inquires. I nod, a bit uncomfortable.

"Good. Miss Granger, we treat boils from Bulbadox Powder by administering what?"

"Boil cure potion, Healer Derwent."

"And how is it administered?"

"Directly on the boils, as close to the centre of each boil as possible, until all boils disappear. If it takes more than 12 drops, a pause of 2 hours should be made, as to avoid side affects from overuse of the boil cure potion."

A female scream is heard from outside the ward I am currently in.

There's not a sound in the world I dislike more than that one.

Well, maybe female crying. I shudder.

"Good. You can handle that yourself, then. If I recognise these screams I hear...it's Miss Johnson again." he shakes his head, obviously disapproving. I don't blame him at all.

Me and the Healer girl, whose name I refuse to let my mind recall, remain alone in the ward.

"I'll go get the potion, then. Stay here, Sir."

I nod in acknowledgement, and am left alone for a minute, or two, until she returns with a vial of an ugly looking purple liquid. I shiver, which she doesn't fail to notice. I wonder if anything ever fails to get by her watchful pair of eyes.

"Lie down." she speaks, her tone suddenly stricter. Thinking I hadn't understood, she motions towards the uncomfortable looking hospitable bed.

I do as she says, and lie on the bed. The boils hurt, more and more, as time passes. I smile at the prospect of getting rid of them.

She stands to the left of my bed, and seems to have chosen to aim at my arm first, the left one. It hurts less than I imagined. After 2 drops, my left arm seems as good as new. I'm suddenly grateful for the existence of Potion Masters all over the world. The image of Slughorn in his classroom has never been as heart-warming as it is in this very moment.

But this image, right here before me, manages to capture my attention yet again, Curls taking place of Slughorn. My loyal Healer bites her lip, in her internal debate, I suppose, about her further course of action.

She removes a rebellious curl from her face (though I do suppose all of her curls are rebellious, and that this is not the exception, more likely the rule).

Obviously having made up her mind, she crosses to the other side of the room, to start treating my right arm.

Her gaze stops at the same place as mine - three nasty boils very close to one another. She bites her lip again, then puts her right arm on mine, holding my elbow. Her palm is warm, quite pleasant in fact.

"This might hurt."

In what seems to me a very short period of time, she releases three drops that arrive at the same spot on my arm. It stings, admittedly. It almost seems to me she's holding her breath, waiting. The worst of the boils begin clearing up. After two more drops, my right arm seems to be back to its previous state as well.

"Sir -"

"It's Scabior, actually." I want to tell her she already knows that, but I bite my tongue and say nothing of the sort.

It seems to me like she's withholding something as well, as she proceeds.

"Sir, I need to remove your vest."

"It's alright, Curls. I trust you." I whisper. Her eyes tell her she'd be quite happy to slap me, or at least something resembling that. But they also tell me she won't.

Instead, she uses her wand to cut through my shirt. Two long cuts, from the top to the bottom of my shirt, on the left and right side of me. I sit up, providing her with access to my previously inaccessible back.

Her fingers descend down my back as she meticulously peels my vest off. At her sign, I return to my previous position, lying on my back, but now I am free of my vest. The sheets are cold against my skin.

The boils have, well, boiled through upper parts of my vest. The lower part she cuts off too.

"This might hurt as well."

She starts peeling off the remains of my vest. She does it slowly, and that hurts. I hiss. My grip on the sheets tightens, my teeth clench. When it's over, in a couple of minutes, I let out a loud sigh of relief. I've never been known to handle pain well. She throws my vest into the trash bin.

"So my vest in now medical waist. Splendid!"

My attempt at an amusing comment causes - nothing, really. Not even a smile. I'm disappointed, but I move on. Especially when my attention is returned to the witch, and the still ugly purple coloured liquid in her vial.

From where I'm lying, it looks as if she's a bit uncomfortable, and I attribute that to my now revealed chest. Her gaze seems to have stopped on it, traveling up and down, tracing the skin, boils and numerous scars.

With four more drops, she manages to clear the rest of the boils.

I sit up and my legs have almost touched the floor, when she stops me.

"Not yet, Sir. After administering the boil cure potion, the treated skin needs to be further treated with Murtlap Essence. This part won't hurt at all."

She walks out, and I can't help my eyes following the barely noticeable but present swaying of her hips as she does.

When she returns, she instructs me to lie back yet again. She applies Murtlap's Essence to my arms first, then, again with reluctance, my heaving chest.

I suppose she's finished her work, because she's stepped back from me.

"You're taken care of now, Sir." Her defiance to call me by my name is audible in her voice. It's in that moment I'm completely sure she knows exactly who I am. And where she knows me from.

"Thank you, Healer Granger." I return courtly. I'm sure she's noticed the lack of use of her nickname. Even though she lets on no such thing.

As soon as I reach the apparition point, I apparate to my gardens. I'm pretty sure I had heard her shouting after me, but I couldn't make out what exactly.

Never mind her, I tell myself. Never mind.

I enter my house (well, a cottage, really) from the back door. I go straight to my room to pick a shirt. It's early September, and I'm not as warm as I would like to be.

Still, I shower first. I've always disliked the smell of Murtlap's Essence.

After a quick shower, I head to the kitchen and acquire my companion for the evening, a bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey.

I spend the rest of the long evening sitting in my garden, my only thought a witch with murderous curls and an equally dangerous pair of hips.


End file.
